Immortality
by Lord-Velocinyx
Summary: That was all it was. A quest for immortality. But will his insatiable hunger for the unreachable once again result in his ultimate undoing? Told in the POV of Achilles.
1. Rebirth

**Immortality**

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><p><em>Chapter I - Rebirth<em>

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><p>Men are forever haunted by eternity. It was this fear that drove Hitler to start WWII, this fear that drove Alexander the Great to conquer to the unknown. It had been three thousand years, and his name had yet to fade. But soon. His dreams told him as much.<p>

He did not know what drove him to return to Earth. To return to mortality. Three thousand years in Elysium, second only to the Isles of the Blessed, should've been spent in an eternity of bliss. But every time a new hero entered paradise, with fresh tales of their exploits, he yearned to return. To feel pain again, so that pleasure had a definition. To feel heartbreak, so that love was not just a hollow word. The Underworld in itself was a curse, a curse that only those in Elysium could be free of.

It was the day of a new arrival, Charles Beckendorf. As usual, the welcoming committee was congratulating him on his arrival to Elysium. He looked the stranger up and down. His figure was stout, yet muscular. He was an African as far as he could tell, with large callous hands. To him, he looked more like a criminal then a hero, but looks are always deceiving. Just take Helen of Troy for example, and the catastrophe she made with her looks.

He emerged from the shadow of a Roman villa, approaching the fountain where the crowd had gathered around Charles. People parted as he walked towards him. He surveyed him again. Even though the new arrival wore a tough and indifferent façade, he could tell that he was intimidated by my scrutiny.

"You've heard stories of Elysium, haven't you mortal?" Achilles' bluntly asked. His voice was firm, cold from the many lives he had taken. Some said that the only person who had a more frightening voice was Hades himself.

The boy flinched as soon as he uttered the word mortal. "I am no mortal…Achilles."

Achilles frowned. Everyone knew who he was. It was more of a burden to him then an honor. "Demigod then? Fair well in Elysium. Enjoy it while you still feel your mortal side. Because believe me," Achilles turned around and started walking away, "it gets old quickly. You'll see in a century or so." Whispers erupted among the crowd. Live in Elysium for a few centuries and everyone becomes a gossiper.

Achilles was wearing exactly what he was wearing when he entered Elysium some three thousand years ago: A flowing blue robe, the edges decorated by geometric designs sown in golden thread. It was extremely comfortable, and It dragged on the ground whenever the wind wasn't blowing (and he could will the wind to blow whenever he wanted to), but never got dirty. Whether it was because the clothing of Elysium never dirtied, or that the streets were always clean, he would never know.

Every time a renaissance artist entered Elysium, they would disappoint when they saw Achilles. Most portrayed him as the perfect image of the male species, which could've been true. His skin was not flawless, as many idealistic painters had portrayed him. His bodies bore as many scars as people had fingers and toes. His hair changed to his liking, though today, it was a bit shorter then normal, with his molten bronze hair flowing only down to his shoulders. He had intense, pale greenish-blue eyes, like the color of the sea on a stormy day.

He sighed, remembering when the Underworld was limited to the Greeks. Remembering his anger when he discovered that Patroclus had not achieved Elysium. Or Eudoros. Or Briseis. Briseis of all people deserved Elysium. He sighed once more. Too much nostalgia.

He had been thinking about it for six years. At the eve of each New Year, he always backed away from asking for it. Asking for a return to Earth.

Truth to be told, life in Elysium was boring. Nothing new ever happened. Only the same old stories, stacked upon the older. Achilles yearned for a return. But at the same time, he feared it. He feared that it would knock away everything he had established centuries earlier. He feared that he would not be as great as before.

He was determined not to back off today. Few people dared to leave Elysium, fearing that they would not make it back in the next life. But he was Achilles. He was supposed to know no fear. He cursed Homer for making up those rumors. It gave him a reputation to live up to, and one that he grew tired of each passing day.

He journeyed out of the center neighborhood of Elysium, passing an ever evolving cluster of buildings. From ancient Greek palaces, to Chinese pavilions, to modern chateaus, one could see the evolution of architectural history just from walking through the place. And every year, a new ring of houses were added. Before, it was every decade, then every century, but the amount of new people was hard to keep up with.

Achilles passed an advertisement by Hades, pleading citizens of Elysium to consider being reborn, to at least temporarily ease the traffic. Fortunately for him, people rarely chose the path. If everyone did, there wouldn't be any glory in doing so, wouldn't it?

He fazed through the gates of Elysium, a reminder that he was still a shade, a citizen of the bleak Underworld. _No _he told himself. _Tomorrow, he will no longer wake up to paradise. _As soon as he walked a short distance from Elysium, he began to feel things he hadn't felt in centuries; pain, the weight of air itself, and the diverse textures of the Underworld. Things that he had been shielded from too long.

He continued to walk towards the pavilion where people were being judged. Ever so slowly, different aspects of life returned: the scar on the back of his neck, the weight of the robes on his shoulders, the tiresome walk up hill. It was like reopening old wounds, unlocking a dusty treasure that had been hidden for hundreds of years.

It didn't feel like a long time before he reached the tent. There was a single empty line, the only opening out of the Underworld for the deceased. A sign hung overhead bearing the words, "From Elysium. Rebirth contracts signed here!"

He took a breath, feeling a refreshing sensation: his heart beat. First faintly and slowly, like a newborn baby. He entered the tent.

A bored looking attendant snoozed in the chair. "You must not get a lot of people here for you to be in that state," remarked Achilles.

He instantly woke up before choking on the drool that had collected in his mouth. Achilles simply smirked. "Wha-? Oh, so you're here to be reborn?"

Achilles took a minute, before nodding firmly.

_I will not back out this time._

"Just fill out this form and sign down there. And please, do it in Ancient Greek or Hades might throw the form away," drawled the attendant. He went back to snoring as soon Achilles picked up the pen.

"No wonder there are no people waiting to be reborn," Achilles muttered as he filled out the first two lines, "No one from the newer generations know _ancient_ Greek, or any Greek for the matter."

The first few questions were simple enough. Typical things like name, parents, birth place. The only one that he was stumped on was birth date.

Then, the questions became harder. Love interests, regrets, accomplishments. Who read this stuff anyways? Aphrodite?

As his hand reached the bottom of the paper, he noticed that he started to write slower. Part of him still didn't want to leave.

Soon, only his signature was left. That was also when the "what ifs" started to barrage his brain.

_What if I die as a newborn?_

_What if I forget my past life?_

_What if I don't make it back to Elysium?_

He painstakingly forced his hand to the paper.

_A__χιλλεύς_

As soon as the pen left the paper, all Achilles could see was black. And then came an overwhelming wave of new sensations, the most prominent being the first cries of a newborn.

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><p><strong>So how was that? I don't think it's that good, but hopefully I'm wrong. Review!<strong>


	2. Return

**Immortality**

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><p><em>Chapter II - Return<em>

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><p><em>Rage - Goddess, sing of the rage of Peleus' son, Achilles.<em>

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><p>Achilles leaned back into his chair, his hands playing with a bent-out-of-shape paperclip. His teacher was yammering on about a topic he could care less about. He periodically glanced at the clock, wishing that the bell would just ring already and relieve him of his boredom.<p>

It wasn't that he didn't like his teacher; in fact, this was the only academic class he excelled in. History. After a few minutes, he felt sure that the clock was taunting him. Its hands never moved, but the incessant ticking told him otherwise. It was as if the clock was insistent on keeping him in class, even he fervently refused to listen to the teacher.

_Tick tock tick tock…_

Achilles didn't think himself as a handsome boy, a belief contrary to the thoughts of the female population that gawked at him at every chance. He wasn't the tallest fifth grader attending Argonaut Elementary School, nor was he the smartest. He only knew that he was taller then 54", and that information was only because he could ride the bigger rides at Six Flags. His half-brunette half-blonde hair was the color of polished bronze, and went down in waves to his shoulders, which he was satisfied with since he couldn't fall into the "dumb blonde" stereotype. With pale jade eyes as sharp as a sword he was the de facto king of glares, which he found astonishingly useful. It made himself seem bigger and tougher then he really was.

He had crafted the paper clip into something akin to a crude dart. Suppressing the urge to use it to silence the maddening ticking of the clock, he finally looked up towards the board, copying down the notes that had accumulated during the past fifteen minutes.

"Now Achilles, would you like to tell the tale of your name? The one that we have been discussing for the past fifteen minutes?" Crap. He still hadn't finished copying the notes down. The teacher wore an infuriatingly smug look on his face, his intense gaze setting on Achilles' half-startled face. He hated when teachers asked a question and made it seem like the answerer had a choice. They might as well demand an answer instead of giving half-lies. But that didn't bring light to how he should answer the question.

Crap, crap, crap. What was he going to do?

_Do you not remember your own past, my son?_

The voice nearly made him jump out of his chair, with the only restraint being that it would only worsen his embarrassment. He felt the stares of his classmates, the snickers of the bullies in the back right corner of the classroom, a girl dropping her pencil two chairs behind him. Everything suddenly came in with hyper detail. Achilles stood up from his chair, since his teacher preferred (forced) people to command absolute attention while speaking.

"Achilles was a warrior portrayed in Homer's epic poem, the Iliad," he started. He drawled each word, trying to make the sentence seem longer then it was supposed to, as he wracked his panicking brain for more scraps of information.

Memories flashed through his eyes. Memories he had never experienced.

Killing. Blood. The anguished cries of perished soldiers.

"He was invulnerable to any mortal wound, except for the heel, where his mother had held him when shaving off his mortal half in the River Styx."

The teacher, Mr. Cortez nodded interestingly. His eyes gleam, eagerly telling him to continue.

The image of an old woman pleading him not to leave her lingered.

"He sailed for Troy with Agamemnon's army because he wanted glory. Accompanying him was a group of 2,500 warriors, the Myrmidons."

A fleet of one thousand ship bobbing in the water, at the mercy of the ocean.

"For ten years, the war dragged on. The Greeks were able to subdue Troy's surrounding allies, but were unable to take the city itself." Achilles didn't know how he was conjuring up these words, but whatever got him out of imminent trouble was good enough for him.

_Myrmidons! My brothers by the sword, today we fight not for a petty king's greed.  
><em>

"In the ensuing siege, Achilles refused to fight after his lover, Briseis, was taken by Agamemnon."

_Today_, _we fight for glory, so that no man shall forget our names. Let no man forget how fiercely we fought.  
><em>

"Patroclus, frustrated with Achilles' stubborn notions decides to lead the Myrmidons to battle himself, pretending to be Achilles."

_Let no man forget our victory here today, nor the anguish cries of our fallen adversaries.  
><em>

"Patroclus is killed by Hector, and Achilles in his grief, seeks out Hector and kills him in revenge."

_The brave need few words, but let me say this to you._

"Achilles is later killed by Paris, who shot an arrow through his heel. However, Achilles' final wish is realized. His name was never forgotten."

_Beyond those walls lies promises of glory, immortality! Take it, brothers. It's yours!_

A strange feeling overtook him. It felt as if he were talking about himself in third person, which was ridiculous. He could barely keep himself out of the sights' of the school's bullies. Forget about toppling thousands of Trojans. Any act of bravery by him was almost always made out of desperation._  
><em>

For a second he just stood there, his eyes staring out blankly. It wasn't until he realized the weird looks his classmates were giving him did he finally decide to take his seat. Achilles shakily sat down, the images still whirling around in his head. It was as if he had lived an entirely different life in the few minutes it took him to speak. His wide eyes held an ominous look.

Mr. Cortez clapped his hands. "Very good, Achilles. And here I thought I had finally caught you not paying attention." The teacher's smug look had drained from his face, being replaced by a kindly smile.

Achilles returned a strained smile. He looked back at the clock. For once, it showed what he desired. Class was nearly over.

'_Immortality,'_ he thought, recalling the last line of the speech. What a petty notion that was. He would much rather go out with a bang then live to become a senile old man. Live with the same regrets, the same 'what ifs' for an eternity. What torture that would be.

The bell snapped him out of thought. He quickly gathered his things, half-listening to the last minute notices his teacher was shouting out. He rushed out the door, heading purposefully to his next class.

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><p>Lunch. He absolutely hated lunch. Especially if it was chili. It wasn't that he had something against Mexican food, but every time, it gave people an excuse to call him-<p>

"Sup A-chili." That. An entourage of snickers followed the comment. He ignored the voice, even if his pride was egging him to start a fight. He sat down in one of the vast cafeteria's azure colored tables. He unpacked the spoon from the plastic wrap with a deceptive calmness. The trio of bullies followed him.

Brad, the ringleader that orchestrated virtually all bullying incidents in the school, hated his guts. For whatever reason his hatred stemmed from, Achilles didn't know. Brad looked rather similar to him, except for being taller, and his hair shorter. He looked like a mixture of one of those typical blondes Achilles saw in movies, and a wrestler. In other words, he looked nothing like a student.

He mustered his best glare, but any resolve Achilles had shattered as soon as he looked into Brad's eyes. They seemed to be talking to his mind, sending messages of fear. He looked away and gulped down some milk.

Before he could swallow his first bite, Brad took his own spoon, using it to take a glob of chili, and catapulted it into Achilles' face. Achilles maintained a calm façade, though his arm twitched when he reached for the napkin. _He who angers you conquers you,_ his father had once told him. Brad beat him to the napkin, and used it as a tissue. Achilles clenched the paperclip he had been playing with earlier with his hidden hand under the table.

"Aw, I'm sorry A-chili. Here, I'll help you with that," he said with mock-shame. He was about to use the napkin, which was now covered in his snot, to "clean" Achilles' face when something in him snapped. Enough was enough. His expression radiated with fury, like a steaming pot of water finally revealing itself with angry boils. However, to Brad, it looked quite silly with a mask of chili covering his face.

Before the revolting piece of napkin could get within a foot of his face, he took Brad's flabby arms and twisted. Achilles at first expected nothing major to happen, except for a few snickers. He was not known for his strength. It felt like he was twisting something heavy, but eventually, the weight was eased by momentum.

He didn't fully realize what he had done until his ears caught a collective gasp was heard from the cafeteria. He looked to Brad, who had somehow fallen face first into his chili. "Are you really that hungry?" taunted Achilles. Feeling bold, he continued, "Here let me help." Using his spoon, he painted a mustache of chili onto Brad's face with accompanying eyebrows and beard.

There went his meal. Unfortunately, having an empty stomach for P.E. was the least Achilles had to worry about now. Brad had an incredulously dazed look on his face, trying to process if he had really just been humiliated by a kid two heads shorter. Achilles stood up, and started to shuffle away, hopefully unnoticed.

Finally, Brad lifted his head off the plate, a red liquid dripping down from his chin, some going into his shirt. Whether it was blood or chili sauce, Achilles didn't know, and didn't want to stick around long enough to find out. "You punk! You'll pay for that!" he roared. Now, both boys' faces were covered in the red sauce. Achilles still had some of it festering in his mouth, his first and only bite of his lunch. Right after Brad swung his fist, Achilles spit the red sludge into Brad's eyes.

The brute screamed as the mixture of saliva and hot sauce burnt his eyes. Achilles took the chance; he ran towards Brad, ducking under his flailing fists, before using his duck as a spring board to leap towards Brad's left side. He plunged the paperclip that he still had into Brad's neck in midair, before landing and running past his frozen figure. Achilles had felt the paper clip enter his flesh, and shamefully admitted that it felt good. The abused piece of metal snapped in half in the process, leaving a jagged piece of iron embedded into Brad's thick neck.

The bully screamed an octave higher then Achilles thought possible. Speaking of the impossible, Brad's two wing men transformed into literally that - winged men.

Achilles turned slack-jawed, his mouth drying up like someone had stuffed cotton into them. He willed his petrified feet to move, and eventually he did, but only after one of those _thing's _talons scratched him in the heel.

It was the most painful sensation ever, sending shocks of fire through his entire body, while a chill played down his spine. Where the two opposing sensations met, it felt like lightning had struck him there, followed by numbness. The shock itself brought tears to his eyes, pulsing from the wound.

"Achilles?" It was his teacher, Mr. Cortez. But his voice seemed thousands of miles away, echoing. "Achilles!"

"Achilles…?"

_Do you not remember me, my son?_

The rasp of a sword being pulled from its scabbard rang through Achilles' head, as he collapsed onto the ground, his world around him falling apart. His mind fell blank amidst the sounds of battle.


End file.
